


Irresistable

by Calacious



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Crack, Experimental Style, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Inspired by Adventure Time, M/M, Not Enough Puns, Overly Sappy Ending, Supernatural Elements, Uncontrollable Impulses to Hug Everyone Within Arm's Reach, Use of Archaic Meanings of Words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tig is an irresistible, sexed-up 'hug-wolf,' and he doesn’t know how he got this way, but he’s betting that it has something to do with the bearlike woman who hugged him the other day. Thankfully, Chibs doesn’t mind the hugs, or the sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irresistable

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Inspired by the episode, “Hug Wolf,” on, “Adventure Time,” originally aired on July 2, 2012. Finn was infected by a hug-wolf, and thought he needed to be locked up, but hugging an alpha hug-wolf cured him in the end. That won’t be happening with Tig. It’s crack. Don’t take it too seriously. Oh, and ‘Mr. Clean’s’ real name is Teddy. He goes by, Bear, and doesn’t tell anyone his first name, unless they’re real close friends or lovers, because he has a bit of a temper and can’t take the Teddy Bear jokes, even if he can be cuddly at times.
> 
> Warning: This story contains foul language, uses an archaic meaning of the word die (have an orgasm – from the Oxford dictionary), has an inordinate amount of hugging (though, non-explicit, for the most part), features sex, and has an overall sense of craziness. Language is abused, as is punctuation. Experimental form. Not to be taken overly seriously.
> 
> If you like, let me know.

Tig has no idea what’s going on, where this insane urge to hug everyone is coming from. It’s disconcerting, and definitely does nothing for the, ‘tough-guy-who-doesn’t-give-a-shit-about-anything-or-anyone,’ image that he’s trying to maintain –especially not when he spontaneously hugs the big, extremely muscular bouncer at one of those pretentious strip clubs that boast of designer drugs, and plenty of hot women with huge tits and loose pussies.

The bald muscle-man kind of reminds Tig of Mr. Clean, though inexplicably, aside from his inability to restrain himself from hugging everyone in sight, Tig is, thankfully, able to keep thoughts like those to himself. He doubts that Mr. Clean would appreciate the comparison, and the man could, if he had half a mind, snap him like a twig.

Instead of shoving Tig away, the bouncer squeezes Tig’s ass, and winks at him as he admits him into the club. A pat on the ass from the man’s massive hand nearly sends Tig sprawling, and, momentarily stunned, Tig doesn’t turn around to confront the man.

Several hugs later – to both men and women, and some women Tig would swear are transvestites - and Tig is finally at the bar. He feels hot, and itchy, and like hugging the bartender when the man passes him a shot of whiskey.

He slams back the whiskey, and holds onto the edge of the bar as he orders another. Maybe, if he drinks enough, he won’t feel the need to hug the people sitting next to him.

Three shots, and three random hugs later, Tig is convinced that he’s losing, not only his edge, but his mind.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and Tig hooks his left foot around the rung of the stool he’s sitting on, fingers of his right hand digging into the edge of the bar. Sweat pops out on his brow as he resists the urge to hug the newcomer.

“Hey.” Chibs slides onto the barstool next to him, and Tig immediately relaxes. It’s okay to hug Chibs. “You alright?”

Tig wants to nod, wants to tell Chibs that he’s fine, and that the ass-grab from the bouncer didn’t make him hard. That he hasn’t been thinking dirty thoughts about Mr. Clean every time that he’s hugged a random stranger since. But the words won’t come. He tries for a nod, or a smile, but neither of those seems to work either.

In short, he’s good and truly fucked, and he won’t be fucking one, or more, of the shapely, long-limbed and big-breasted women gyrating onstage. Not when he can’t seem to get his mind off of how Mr. Clean’s massive paw felt on his ass, and definitely not when he can’t stop hugging everyone he gets within arm’s reach of.

“Tig?” Chibs is too close, shoulder and right knee brushing against Tig’s.

There’s a fire in the pit of his stomach, and Tig twitches. He’s fast losing perspective, and the ability to stop himself from doing what he’d hoped the whiskey and the scantily clad women would – solicit something a little more than a hug from Chibs.

Something wholly other has taken control of him – mind and body – and he’s like a werewolf, unable to control the transformation under the light of a full moon, except it’s hugs that he can’t control.

Tig can’t remember when it first started, what set this insanity off, but it’s been going on for little over a week now – ever since that bearlike woman had hugged him while exiting the gas station. He’d shaken it off as some odd happenstance at the time, but now he wonders if she didn’t pass this hug craziness onto him.

Tig has always had a healthy sexual appetite, some might say that it bordered on addiction, but, ever since that strange hug, he’s even more driven by his libido than he was just a week ago, or at least that’s how it feels.

It’s not the same, though, his sex drive. _He’s_ not the same. And he craves something different than the same-old-same-old.

He’s fine during the day, but just as the sun begins to go down, painting the sky a pastel orange, Tig gets an itch. Then heat engulfs him, and it’s either hug, or deal with an incessant burn that gets more and more unbearable as the night goes on.

The pain is only eased when he hugs someone, so Tig eventually gives into the urge – an almost animalistic instinct – to hug, and then, as the night winds down, it becomes something more, an irresistible need to fuck, or be fucked, by whoever is there at the time – the last hug of the night.

Right now, Tig’s betting even money that he’ll be going home with Mr. Clean, because he can still feel the imprint of the man’s hand on his right ass-cheek, like it’s been seared there, a marker on a claim that the man plans to collect at the end of the night. Tig’s blood is almost singing at the thought of it, his dick twitching in anticipation, even as he thinks about what it would be like to go home with Chibs instead.

Tig can’t count how many times over the past week that he’s wanted that last hug to be Chibs, how, the next morning, waking up to some faceless, nameless bimbo – male or female – he feels oddly used and unsatisfied, and Chibs’ face comes to him, unbidden. It’s like the only way to satisfy his inner, for lack of a better term, hug-wolf, is to be fucked by Chibs.

“’M fine,” Tig snarls, and jerks away when Chibs moves closer.

“What the fuck’s crawled up your ass and died?” Chibs pulls away and looks at Tig as though he’s grown two heads.

_Mr. Clean’s dick, tonight,_ Tig thinks with a self-deprecating snort. No longer able to meet Chibs’ gaze, Tig looks away, and runs his index finger around the rim of the shot glass. He wonders, almost idly, what it will be like to have Mr. Clean come inside him, what it’ll be like to ride the man’s cock until they both reach that climatic moment and the burning finally eases.

Of course, it’ll never be enough, and Tig will go through this same damn thing tomorrow night. Except, it won’t be Mr. Clean, but some other random fuck, and Tig will never get rid of this itch, because no way in hell is he going to talk about it with anyone at SAMCRO. This ain’t the kind of shit that brothers talk about – nameless, senseless urges to hug everyone, and to have a brother’s dick rammed up his ass, or fuck, in his mouth like a goddamn, ten-dollar whore.

Tig almost goes blind when he gets a mental picture of kneeling before Chibs, and…

“What the fuck is going on with you?” Chibs elbows him, and Tig can’t take it anymore.

His blood, hot as lava, is boiling beneath the surface of his skin, and his heartbeat is an overwhelming, repetitive mantra of: _hug-hug, hug-hug, hug-hug._ He can no longer deny the burning, the lust, the insatiable hunger for hugs.

He turns, and without a word, wraps his arms around Chibs, unseating the man from his stool, ignoring the surprised, ‘oomph,’ that Chibs makes at the sudden, unexpected movement, and the arms that wrap around him like an octopus’ tentacles. Tig does nothing to mask his arousal, refuses to let go when Chibs pushes at him, because his arms don’t want to let go, and his blood is chanting: _hug-Chibs, hug-Chibs, hug-Chibs,_ like it’s a single word. There’s a part of him that is pretty sure that his life is dependent upon holding onto Chibs, and never letting go.

“Fuck.”

Chibs’ breath is hot against Tig’s collarbone, and it makes him shiver, makes him want to strip down right there, in the bar, and have Chibs take him, as is, bent over the fucking barstool. He’s not a virgin, and, due to recent sexual activities, he’s pretty damn-near ready, and stretched as much as he needs to be.

He doubts the pain, if any, would even register, because he’s fucking burning up, and his heart, his heart is going to explode if Chibs refuses him right now. He could make do with Mr. Clean, but, right now, with his arms wrapped around Chibs, Tig refuses to even entertain the thought, because no one else will do.

“Tig…” Chibs’ voice is strained, pleading. “C’mon, let go. People are starting to stare.”

Tig pushes up against Chibs.

“Don’t care.”

Tig mouths at Chibs’ ear, humming.

“Need you.”

He nips at Chibs’ earlobe, and the burning beneath the surface of his skin increases. If something doesn’t happen soon, he’ll spontaneously combust.

“Need this.”

Tig knows that he’s not making sense, and that Chibs will probably shoot him when he has the use of his arms back, but he moves his lips from Chibs’ ear, and down to the man’s mouth, and kisses him, tasting the acrid tobacco from the cheap cigarettes that Chibs smokes, and the bitterness of barley hops from the half beer that Chibs had managed to consume before Tig had glommed onto him like some kind of demented octopus with a craving for humans.

Chibs shivers, and his mouth opens wider, and then, without warning, he’s kissing back, somehow working his arms free from where Tig had them pinned to his side so that he can get an equal grip on Tig, digging the fingers of one hand into Tig’s hip, and those of his other hand into Tig’s hair, tugging on it.  

There’s nothing gentle about their kiss. Teeth clack and clash, tear at tender flesh, and draw blood. The coppery taste, scent of pennies, goes right to Tig’s groin, and his heart’s new beat goes something like: _fuck-fuck, fuck-fuck, fuck-fuck._

And if they don’t go somewhere else less private, soon, Tig is going to bare his ass, and spread himself across the bar and beg Chibs to take him, audience or not. He’s not picky. Never has been shy. Doesn’t care who sees. He just needs Chibs to fuck him, to ease the fire in his veins.

When Tig reaches for his fly, Chibs’ moves a hand to block him, shakes his head, breathes out, “Not here. Wait.”

Chibs palms Tig’s dick, the rough material of the jeans rubbing against his hard cock makes Tig whimper.

“Wait,” Chibs repeats, the whispered word rings with authority, and Tig’s heart stills, the fire subsides a little.

“We’ll do this good and proper; just the two of us,” Chibs promises.

Tig manages to swallow and nod, and he doesn’t resist when Chibs pulls away, grips his hand, and tugs him from the barstool. Preoccupied, Tig slaps a random bill on the counter, to pay for his and Chibs’ drinks, and, mesmerized by the sway of Chibs’ hips as he leads the way out of the bar, Tig follows, mouth slightly agape.

It isn’t until the cold of the air conditioned club is stripped away, giving way to the muggy, close air of the outside world, that Tig comes to himself, aware of what just happened, and what’s about to happen. He glances over his shoulder, sees a disappointed frown on Mr. Clean’s face, and gives the man a wink, wriggling his ass just a little, feeling the burn of the man’s palm print beginning to fade away as he follows Chibs.

Tig doesn’t remember the ride to Chibs’, or the walk that leads them, shedding their clothing on the way, to the man’s darkened bedroom. Chibs pushes Tig down onto the mattress, and he bounces a little – he likes a mattress that gives – crab-walks his way to the center of the bed, and reaches up to tug and tease at Chibs’ bobbing erection.

Chibs doesn’t waste much time with foreplay, though he lets Tig sample some of his pre-cum, swallows it in a heated kiss that makes Tig’s heart stop long enough for him to see stars. And then he’s being mounted, hips raised up on a pillow, knees hitched up to his fucking ears, and Chibs is filling him, slowly, deliberately. It’s not gentle, it’s not rough, it’s just straight-up sex, and Tig loses himself in the rhythm of it.

The fire inside him burns hotter and brighter, and then Chibs’ hand wraps around Tig’s dick, thumb rubbing at the head, and then he’s pulling and stroking, and drawing guttural sounds from Tig that, with anyone else, would be embarrassing. By the time that the head of Chibs’ dick pushes against his prostate, Tig is already half-way gone.

A few more strokes, Chibs balls slapping against Tig’s ass, and the fire burns so hot, the flames licking at the space between them, swallowing, and consuming them, and Tig screams, his nails digging into Chibs’ back, and they come, together, Chibs riding out his orgasm inside of Tig. It’s hot, and sticky, and Tig can’t find his breath. He can’t think, can’t see, and, when the fog starts to clear, the fire is gone.

Chibs pulls out of him, and the resulting splurching sound should be disgusting, but it isn’t. None of what has just happened between them is wrong, or disgusting, or sinful.

“Fuck.”

Chibs flops onto the mattress beside Tig, his arm falls across Tig’s sticky chest, and Tig’s heart hums a soothing, wordless tune. Something inside of him shifts when Chibs turns toward him, and rearranges the bedding, covering them, and then pulling Tig close, hugging him – back to chest.

Tig doesn’t know, if, come evening tomorrow, he’ll feel the compulsion to hug everyone who comes within arm’s reach, but, Tig does know that, the only way to quench the fire that burns within his veins is lying behind him, arms wrapped around him, breath coming out in even gusts across the back of his neck as sleep claims his newfound lover.

“Mine.” Chibs’ arms tighten around Tig as he stakes his claim in a single word.

Smiling, Tig slips his calf between Chibs’, leeching some warmth from the man, and he presses his lips to the back of Chibs’ hand.

“Yours,” Tig agrees, and then, with a sigh of contentment, he allows sleep to come, no longer fearing the future. Compelled to hug, or not, he’s got Chibs.


End file.
